Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  He ate the pasty and drank the milk, and bade the lady farewell, and did not notice that his first emotion had been to avoid sadness and death; and that it was only afterwards that he had thought of the danger to himself.

  The sun was setting into the sea as he finally approached the great sea-washed, sun-drenched edge of Ireland’s west coast. As he turned his mount’s head towards the blazing light, he saw for the first time the great, towering shapes of the Moher Cliffs, silhouetted sharply and blackly against the horizon. The narrow roadway sloped sharply upwards, so that he must approach them from below. Fiery light from the dying sun poured in between the great rocks, laying fingers of brilliance across the road. The horses’ manes were turned to molten gold in the blaze, and Maelduin felt as if he was riding into the centre of an immense fire. He thought that he was surely going in the right direction — ride directly into the setting sun — and he felt confidence well up inside him.

  I am riding into the setting sun, I am following the oldest, most enduring story ever told about the Grail Castle. I am surely on the right road. I shall cage this monster, and then I shall return to my people.

  Ahead of him, the skies were washed in the fiery sunset, so that it was as if the entire western edge of Ireland was burning. He reined in his horse, and sat motionless for a moment, seeing the great swathes of flame and pink and crimson pouring across the skies, turning the ocean to a river of dazzling brilliance. Beautiful and awe-inspiring. And how often had he flown recklessly through that fire-drenched ocean, chasing the shrieking seagulls, leading the other sidh, all of them gleefully hunting the Humanish.

  And now the Humanish are my friends, and I am seeing the dying sun from the ground, and I am chained and manacled in Humanish skin and bones and flesh.

  He touched the horse’s flanks lightly to move it onwards again, for the sun was slipping down into the ocean, and night would soon be creeping over the great stark Cliffs.

  The road continued to climb, and as the two horses climbed with it, Maelduin heard the ocean roaring and tasted the sharp clean scent of the pounding waves. At the summit of the incline, straight ahead of him, were the great Moher Cliffs, standing sentinel to Ireland’s western edge. He could not see beyond them, but at any minute, he thought, I will reach the crest of the hill, and I will stand on the summit of the Cliffs, and I shall look out over the endless ocean.

  And somewhere there will be the Grail Castle.

  He looked back yet again to be sure that the other horse was still with him. Yes. It followed faithfully and steadily, the silver cage securely strapped to its pannier. Maelduin turned back to the road, thinking that he had come this far without incident, thinking that after all it had not been so very hard a task!

  The great crags seemed to be leaning forward towards him now, and he saw that, at their exact centre, standing directly in his path, were two vast columns, great black pillars, either natural or Man-made, he did not know which, starkly outlined against the glow of the setting sun.

  The disused Gateway to the Dark Realm.

  The pillars tapered towards their summit, and at the tip of each of them was an eyelet, a round fissure, through which the dying light streamed, giving the pillars an eerie appearance of sight. I could easily believe that those are single eyes, and that they are watching me, thought Maelduin. I could very easily imagine that they are giants, cyclopic ogres, twin colossi standing guard to the dark inner world of that Other Ireland …

  He gave himself a shake, and looked back at the columns of stone. Nothing but hard, dark rock, immense stone pillars with some kind of freak formation at the tip. But he felt, as if it were a physical coldness, the shadows of the pillars fall across his path; and he felt as well the trickling, seeping, draining feeling of evil quite close by. An icy wind stirred the air, and blew dank, sour breath in his face, as if an ancient tomb had been unsealed. In the cage behind him, he heard the Fisher Prince uncoil, and he heard the scrape of its claws against the silver bars of its cage. So it also sensed and smelt the ancient evil, did it? Maelduin shivered and drew the woollen cloak more tightly about him. I am on the edges of the necromancers’ Realm, I am approaching a Gateway to the Black Domain, and the sun is sinking, and night is falling all about me …

  And only in the darkest depths of the night can the Grail Castle on its lonely, desolate road, be found …

  He rode on, occasionally glancing back to where the second horse followed faithfully, and as he rode, he felt the night begin to wake.

  The depths of the night, when the ancient lost enchantments of Ireland stir, and when prowling evils walk abroad …

  He could feel the old enchantments all about him as he guided his horse on to the narrow path that led to the Cliffs, but they were no longer the soft woodland enchantments that lived in Ireland’s heart and that stirred the depths of the ancient forests or walked abroad in the magical Purple Hour of twilight.

  These were the dark, warped creatures of necromancy; the twisted, grotesque beings that patrolled the boundaries and that were sometimes glimpsed in the deepest thickets of the night. I can feel them and I can scent them, thought Maelduin, his every nerve stretched to its furthest point. There was a thickening in the air, the fleeting vision of something — several somethings? — darting ahead; not quite on all fours, but not quite walking upright either. There was the beating of wings overhead several times, the soft, insidious sounds of slithering boneless creatures, or claw-footed beasts with slavering jaws and hungry muzzles …

  The Dark Ireland waking and walking close by … Yes, I believe that I am very close to one of the Gateways now.

  He was not afraid. He was curious and fascinated; in his mind he touched the glistening, silver-tipped Cadence and felt himself protected. He feared no creature; for, he thought, I believe that nothing in this Humanish world could kill me.

  As he drew nearer, the great black columns were framed against the sky, and he saw that, just in front of them, a thin reddish vapour rose into the air, tainting it, as if blood were oozing from a wound, or as if someone — several someones — were sitting round a fire. His mind at once conjured up an image of a group of people talking quietly, perhaps cooking a meal over the fire, the shadows gathering beyond the leaping warmth, but the circle of light safe and bright and friendly. Perhaps they would invite him to share their fire and their supper. And then he thought: but what kind of people would make camp out here in the lee of the Moher Cliffs, on the very threshold of the Dark Ireland … ?

  As he neared the light, he saw that it lay over the road and the foot of the great black stone pillars, and that it seemed almost to be a dull phosphorescence, a faintly luminous glow that was escaping from the crags and the boulders and the sudden jagged quarries out here. Not a fire after all. Or is it? thought Maelduin. It had the feeling of fire; there was a dry, rather evil-smelling heat to it.

  He reined in his horse and remained motionless, trying to identify the light, feeling the harsh dry heat quite strongly now, thinking that perhaps the phosphorescence might be coming from the earth’s core; a cavern or a chasm of some kind.

  Behind him on the second horse, the monster-creature was peering through the silver cage, his clawed hands curled about the bars, his flat, evil eyes fixed unblinkingly on the glow. Maelduin felt something inside him spark a warning, for if the monster-creature was attracted by the lights, then they must have a sinister meaning.

  A quarry. Some kind of natural crater. An abyss. Or a chasm.

  Or a pit.

  As they rounded a curve in the road, Maelduin saw directly ahead of him, yawning redly and evilly in the light of the dying sun, the great smooth-sided abyss, with thick, fetid smoke rising slowly from its depths.

  The Tanning Pit of the Dark Lords.

  *

  He recognised it at once, for the tales told about it were many and vivid. The great Chasm, the Pit, where servants of the Dark Lords who displeased or injured them were summarily flung to bake slowly in the hard, dry heat.
The terrible gaping abyss where the unfortunate wretches who incurred the necromancers’ wrath and transgressed their laws were chained and manacled to the hard rock. Where they were left to dry and wither, to tan and harden until their outer coverings became thick and horny and scaly; covered with the crusted carapace that branded them for what they were.

  Gristlens … Many of them once perhaps necromancers of some power and some standing in the Black Ireland. Disgraced, outlawed Dark Lords. And this is their place of punishment.

  Maelduin dismounted and tethered both horses to a jutting piece of rock. The silver cage he covered with the blanket, so that the creature should not see what lay ahead. He felt the waves of hatred emanate outwards from it as he did so, and he felt, as well, angry red fire spit from its eyes; and although he paid this no heed, he thought: it senses what is ahead and it wants to see.

  He moved forward warily, feeling even at this distance the harsh heat belching out, brushing his skin and making his eyes dry and gritty.

  And the prisoners condemned to be chained to the Pit’s bottom must dwell there for decades, perhaps centuries even. Maelduin thought: what did they do to deserve such a sentence? In the evil world where they dwelled, what was their offence that they must be cast into this place, and left to flay and shrivel and acquire the repulsive appearance of Gristlens?

  He walked forward, padding soft-footed, silent as a shadow, a slender, colourless figure blending with the moonlight; only his eyes a vivid, glowing colour. The light from the Pit fell about him, clothing him in golden fire and, as he drew closer, he saw that around the Pit’s edges were flambeaux, huge flaring torches that were thrust into the ground at regular intervals. The flames leapt and danced, sending out eerie, flickering shadows, so that for a moment he could believe that strange, distorted beings cavorted and pranced in silent and unholy glee around the Pit’s rim.

  But as he drew closer, he saw that it was only the leaping flames; that nothing moved in the shadows beyond the flambeaux. He stood still, his mind working furiously, studying the torches. They glistened with nearly colourless grease of some kind; there was a sickening meaty scent to them which made his stomach lift with revulsion. He thought: Humanish flesh! I can smell that it is Humanish flesh! And knew the torches to be fuelled by the remains of Humanish bodies, torn into pieces, impaled on stakes and lit so that the wretches in the Pit might see their grisly surroundings.

  The smoke stung his eyes, and for a moment his sight blurred and wavered. He blinked hard, unused to such a feeling, and brushed a hand across his eyes. At once tears ran down his face, stinging slightly; unfamiliar, but unexpectedly cleansing. He moved forward, making out details more clearly now.

  The edges of the Pit were blackened and scorched; here and there they were charred, and cracked from the endless dry heat from below. Maelduin moved as delicately and as fastidiously as a cat, testing every inch of the ground before putting his weight down, aware that at any minute the ground might crumble and fall away, sending him plummeting helplessly into the abyss.

  The stench was stronger here. He looked up at the glowing torches, and saw that he had been right. Humanish torsos; stumps of Humanish limbs. Dreadful, bloodied fragments of bodies, some more complete than others, impaled on the stakes. Several had the heads still attached, so that the necks lolled and the dead, sightless eyes rolled. Maelduin, remembering the physical content of the Humanish, thought: the eyes will be cooking. Poaching. And tried not to think that it was entirely possible that the victims had not been completely dead when they were impaled. How would it feel to be caught and forced down on to sharp stakes, to feel your skin split and your bowels tear, and to know that you were to be burned alive; that you were nothing but faggots for the fire; that your flesh was about to be lit to provide eerie light for the prisoners of the Pit?

  Without warning, a tiny voice on the edge of his mind said: Lit? And who lit them? And then — not who, what?

  Fear uncoiled deep at the base of his stomach: a cold, curdling fear that sent out icy tendrils despite the belching heat. The spikes were quite tall, they were at least six feet high. Six feet high … To reach up and impale the grisly kindling on to them would only be possible for something that was seven or eight feet tall.

  What, in the normal Humanish world, was eight feet tall?

  There was movement on the edge of his vision, a rather horrid lumbering movement, as if something — several somethings — might be creeping towards him. There was the pale blur of something, neither quite skin nor fur, and the glimpse of a twisted, stunted body. Maelduin narrowed his eyes, but the shape eluded him. He thought: Giants! Or perhaps half-Giants! Yes, the size was about right. Eight or nine feet tall. But Giants did not move in quite such creeping, stealthy fashion. They were huge and brutish, but they were not very clever. They were certainly not stealthy or creeping. What, then?

  Maelduin glanced uneasily behind him. The horses were tethered to the rock, the one still bearing its firmly tied burden. He thought: I could be on their backs and away into the darkness. Safe.

  But ahead of him was the Grail Castle, and he was bound by his word as Crown Prince of Tiarna to take the Fisher Prince to it and imprison him there.

  Even, said the scoffing, silvery voice within him, even if it means crossing the Tanning Pit of the Dark Lords? Even if it means braving whatever creatures lurk out there in the shadows?

  Even then.

  Deep in his mind, he touched the silver-tipped Cadence, and felt it respond, as if he had twitched lightly on a thin, shining thread. Every enchantment ever spun or written or imagined …

  He walked to the edge of the vast, sinister abyss, the greasy, meaty scent of the burning flesh almost overpowering him, but moving until he was midway between two of the torches, looking into the shadows beyond the firelight, searching the darkness for whatever moved there.

  The shadows stirred, and six lumbering creatures, with blood-smeared maws, huge, leather-pad hands, and with great, heavy faces with thick jowls, moved out of the shadows.

  Flesh-eating Trolls.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The Trolls surrounded Maelduin at once, standing in a circle looking down at him. There were six of them, and they all had the large, lopsided, slightly lumpish faces of their kind, rather as if their faces had been poured into a mould, but had slipped, or as if a giant hand had been wiped over the surface of their features, smearing the wet clay before it had properly hardened.

  Their skins were thick-looking and pallid, but their jowls were bulbous and darker than the rest of their faces, as if the blood of the victims they ate had collected there, and coagulated in a heavy, dark pool. Their skin was rather coarse, and in places it thickened into matted, bristly fur. Their hands were enormous paws, covered with greasy-looking fur, the palms hard and leathery, the claws crusted with dirt.

  All the better to tear my flesh with …

  Maelduin reached for the Cadence in his mind again, and felt it near him, cool and silvery and obedient. Yes. All right. I can defeat these creatures if I am watchful and if I do not allow them to read my thoughts. I can defeat them if I do not permit fear to enter my mind or my heart. Fear would cloud his concentration, and send the Cadence out of his reach. And fear was a Humanish emotion.

  The Trolls were grinning down at him, showing tiny, stump-like teeth. Their feet were bare, the soles horny and leathery, with thick, rather dirty claw-tipped toes, and they were dressed alike in leather breeches with square aprons with deep pockets, from which protruded the handles of hammers and chisels and knives. Labourers, thought Maelduin. Manual workers. They are the labourers of the Dark Lords. The artisans. Probably not very intelligent, and certainly brutish and coarse-natured.

  ‘Here’s a tasty morsel,’ said one, eyeing Maelduin and smacking its thick, blubbery lips with relish.

  ‘Wouldn’t make three bites,’ said the second, contemptuously. ‘Throw it on to a spike, I says. Let it burn over the Pit.’

  ‘Fillet it
for its rib-bones,’ said a third. ‘I likes a nice juicy rib-bone to gnaw.’

  ‘Suck its marrow and then fling it into the Pit to let the Gristlens play with it.’

  ‘That’s a waste of good ManFlesh.’

  They had rough, coarse voices, as if their lungs were filled with gravel, and as if they might have rather revolting coughing fits when they first awoke from slumber. Maelduin, who found them brutish and repulsive, but who knew himself outpowered physically, eyed them calmly, and said in a cool, silvery voice, ‘Good sirs, may I not express a preference for the method of my own death?’ and the Trolls looked at him in surprise as if he had interrupted a serious and important discussion, and ought to have known better.

  ‘We don’t let Humans choose their death,’ said the one who had spoken first.

  ‘We lets them roast slowly,’ said the second, moving to stand over Maelduin, so that Maelduin could smell the onion-tainted breath and the stale body juices.

  ‘Or we minces ’em.’ The third licked his greasy lips and reached out to pinch Maelduin’s arm with his great paw. ‘This one’d mince well,’ he said. ‘I likes minced Human.’

  ‘Rib-bones,’ put in the fourth. ‘Fillet it, I says, and suck its rib-bones, and then let the Gristlen have it.’

  ‘And what about the fire?’ The first pointed with a hairy, muscular arm to the stakes at the edges of the Pit. ‘We’re bound to keep the fire going all through the night.’

  ‘And through the day.’

  A sudden silence fell, and Maelduin, watching through half-closed eyes, saw that the mention of day had disconcerted them. He searched his mind. Was there an escape here? Were Trolls somehow threatened by daylight?